


The Wrong Rose

by NyxEtoile



Series: Tales of the Sisters Grimm [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, F/M, Magic, Roses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-20 09:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6000471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxEtoile/pseuds/NyxEtoile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“This will cure him of this illness. I cannot promise he won’t get sick again in a month or a year or five. I’ll not have you saying I welched on our deal when I can’t control the future.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I know,” Bucky said quietly. “This is enough.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Turning, the witch gathered the bottles up and put them in a box. She picked up the rose, as well. “You have one week to make what arrangements you need. Be at my gate by sunset the seventh day. What’s your name?” she asked, holding the box out to him.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“James Barnes. Everyone calls me Bucky.” He reached out to take the box and she handed it to him, then stabbed the tip of his third finger with one of the thorns from the rose. He jerked his hand back in surprise.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>She held the rose up and he saw a drop of blood clinging to the thorn. “Seven days, James Barnes. Come back to me or I’ll come and find you.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love fairy tales and updates/retellings of them. I especially love Beauty and the Beast retellings. So when Olives and I decided to do a Fairy Tales series I called dibs on Beauty and the Beast for Bucky and Amanda. But, of course there's always a twist. . .
> 
> Happy Valentines!

Bucky’s best friend was dying. Again.

For as long as he could remember, Steve Rogers had been his best friend. According to family lore they had met when Steve was barely toddling and had rolled his favorite ball into a patch of pricker bushes and had promptly dove in after it. Annoyed at the yelling, Bucky, toddling slightly more confidently, had fished him out, retrieved the ball, and dragged him home to get his scratches patched up. It certainly _sounded_ like something they would do, though Bucky suspected it had been greatly embellished over the years.

That was twenty years ago. They weren’t toddlers anymore, but grown men supporting themselves and Bucky’s mother and sister. But he was still pulling Steve out of scrapes. This time, though, he wasn’t sure if it was possible.

He listened to Steve cough, the sound loud enough to drown out the howling winter wind. He hunched his shoulders and stared down at his soup while his mother and sister glanced at him and then the door behind which his sick friend lay.

“He gets sick every winter,” his mother said quietly. “He always pulls through.”

That was true enough. The only thing as sure as Steve getting himself into trouble was Steve getting sick. Mother said it was because of an illness he’d gotten as an infant. The village gossips said the Rogers line was cursed. Either way, Bucky had spent every winter in his memory worrying about whether he’d have a best friend come the spring.

It was different this time, though. The cough was wetter and wracked Steve’s whole body. He’d been too sick to eat, throwing up when he tried. The last time Bucky had checked on him his lips had been blue, skin so pale he could see the other man’s veins in stark lines. This was different. Maybe it was a curse. Maybe even Steve had met a foe he couldn't fight.

“I need to do something,” he said quietly. His mother and sister exchanged a look.

“Steve wouldn’t want you to do anything drastic,” Rebecca offered.

Now they were even talking about him like he was dead.

If he told the women his plan they’d try to stop him. They wouldn’t succeed, but they would try and he didn’t want to worry them. So he kept quiet and ate his supper.

After eating he sat by the fire and carefully knotted a fishing net. It was difficult doing it one handed, but in the years since the hunting accident that had taken his left arm he’d learned to do a lot of difficult things one handed. The women did their washing and mending before turning in, each stopping to give him what was surely meant to be a comforting hug on the way by.

He waited until the house went quiet and the lights went out behind his mother’s door before putting down his work and going in to check on Steve.

He was as he had been the last time he’d checked, and the time before that. For a moment Bucky just started at him to make sure he was still breathing. His friend’s chest finally rose, just barely and Bucky allowed himself to breathe as well.

“They say a flower from the witch’s garden will cure anything,” he said, crouching down beside Steve’s bed. “I’ve been past her walls dozens of times out in the woods. I’ll go in, get a flower and be back here before you know it.” He wrapped his hand around one of Steve’s thin ones and squeezed. “Hang on until I get back.”

He bundled up in his boots and glove and the warmest coat he had and went out into the snow.

The witch’s walls had always been there. In the stories witches that lived in the woods always seemed to be known fixtures. As old as the forest around them, a fact of nature. Bucky remembered stories about the witch when he was little. It was a mystery where she’d come from. Some said she’d come to torment them, others to guard them. Some said she was long dead. Or was it that she’d lost her powers in a deal with the devil or a bet with other witches and living out here in the wilds was her punishment?

Far as Bucky was concerned, he didn’t see why a witch couldn’t just settle somewhere, like any other person. Maybe she’d finished her witch apprenticeship and had struck out on her own. It happened with blacksmiths and leather workers all the time. How many towns had enough business for two witches?

Of course, if it was business she was after she’d come to the wrong town. Superstition and fear ran deep here, deeper than most places. People still sprinkled salt on the threshold and hearth and planted rosemary for luck. His mother wove and sold evil eye charms that hung in almost every home. And when a man got sick every winter saying he was cursed was a perfectly acceptable diagnosis.

No, no one had every thought to ask the witch for anything. Maybe she was the best witch in the world, but she’d never be able to show it off here. Maybe she liked the solitude and that’s why she stayed, concerned another town would come knocking, asking for love spells and curses. No one had ever tried, so who knew?

But everyone knew about her garden.

The walls in the woods were old and weathered and dusted with moss. There was a big house behind them, that could barely be glimpsed over the stone. No one had seen the witch, though some claimed to hear a woman singing when they got too close to the walls. Like a siren’s song it was, or so they claimed, making them want to get closer. Bucky had passed the walls as often as anyone else, but he’d never heard a damn thing. He could smell the garden, though.

His mother kept a garden. Mostly food and herbs, but a few flowers around the edges. In the height of spring you could step out the door and smell a dozen different scents. The rosemary, lavender and mint. The sweet pea blossoms, just about to burst into pods. And the lilacs and mums that lined the path. She’d tried roses once. Once had been enough.

The garden beyond the wall smelled like that and more. A hundred scents, a thousand maybe. Every flower and herb he’d ever heard of and probably a more he hadn’t. It smelled in the spring and summer, but also the fall and winter. That, more than the mysterious wall and house and childhood tales, had convinced him whoever or whatever lived on the other side was magic. No one could make a flower bloom in the snow. Not without magic.

So if the garden was magic and she was magic and the walls were magic then maybe the other stories were true, too. Maybe those magic plants could heal. Maybe he could save Steve.

The wall loomed in front of him before he knew it, cutting through the heart of the forest. He wondered if any animals had been caught on the other side of it when it had gone up. Were there very confused deer and squirrels and foxes living on the other side, in the garden that never wilted? Did the witch let them live in peace or was there no room for mundane animals in magic plants?

If he thought about it too long he started wondering about bees trying to pollinate enchanted flowers and it made his head hurt. Instead, he turned his mind to getting over the wall. There were trees that grew right up against it, he should be able to use one of them. Tree climbing with one arm was tricky, but Bucky was determined. It wasn’t the most dignified thing in the world, but he eventually got up and out to the closest branch. From there he was able to drop to the top of the wall and then into the garden beyond.

His feet landed in rich, dark earth. There was no snow here, not even the feel of frost. Once he hit the ground the harsh wind no longer bit into his exposed skin. Here it was as warm as a spring day, even though it was still dark as night. The smell of flowers here was all but overpowering, underlaid by the scent of fertile ground.

For a moment he stood in shock, trying to take everything in. There was moonlight enough to make out the shapes of bushes and plants near him. He was a few steps from a path and so carefully picked his way over to it. Now that he was here, how in hell was he supposed to know what plan to take? What flower to pick?

Right, well, he’d come this far, no sense turning back. He crept along the path, peering at different flowers as if one would jump out at him suddenly. The path he was on met another, wider one and he took that deeper into the garden. He had a brief moment of panic that perhaps the garden was a maze and he would be trapped there forever. But when he looked up he could see the stars and recognized them and was relatively confident he could use them to navigate his way out.

The path turned in on itself and he found a large cobblestone courtyard ringed with roses. They were all colorless in the moonlight, but he could tell they had to be every shade he could imagine. Surely they had to be the most magical. Normal roses were hearty but occasionally finicky. Growing this many types, this close together and so tall and fully bloomed had to take powerful enchantments.

He pulled his hunting knife out and chose the biggest, darkest flower and carefully cut the stem, catching it before it could fall. He tucked the knife away again and turned back the way he had come. He was on the smallest path, within sight of the spot he’d entered the garden, when his coat caught on the branches of a hedge. Without looking, he tugged his arm away.

And the branches tightened around his arm.

Slowly, he turned and found a cloaked figure standing beside him on the path. The hand holding his arm was covered in a supple leather glove and the cloak made it impossible to tell if the person was male of female. Or even a person, for that matter. Who knew what creatures guarded an enchanted garden?

Then it spoke. “Stealing from a witch. You are very foolish or very brave.”

The voice was soft and bit out through stiff lips. But it was undeniably female. Panic made his heart flutter in his chest but he forced his voice to stay even. “I apologize. I need this. My friend is sick and I thought. . . they say a flower from your garden can heal anything.”

“Hmm. Foolish, then.” She squeezed his arm and dropped her hand. “Magic can’t be stolen, my dear. There’s always a price.”

“What is your price?” he asked immediately. “I’ll pay it.”

“Now you want to pay for it?” There was a noise that might have been a laugh. “Where was this bartering _before_ you snuck in?” Before he could answer, she added, “What is he sick with?”

“His lungs are weak,” Bucky replied, feeling a faint glimmer of hope. “He coughs and can’t keep food down. It happens every winter but this time it’s worse.”

This time she was definitely laughing, though it was a dry, humorless cackle. “Well, you picked the wrong flower.”

Bucky closed his eyes, feeling that hope die. All this work, all this danger. And now he was caught and probably going to die or get turned into a toad. Which meant Steve would die and God knew what would happen to his mother and Rebecca. All for the wrong goddamned flower.

Then the witch spoke again, “I can give you the right one. But you must pay my price.”

His eyes snapped open. “I will. Anything.”

There was a long pause and he had the distinct impression she was staring at him. Then the hood of the cloak moved as if she had nodded and she turned away from him. “Come along, then,” she said as she walked towards the center of the garden.

He hurried after her, having to jog a bit to catch her. She moved damn fast. She took him through the courtyard, past the roses and down a different path. In the distance, over the tops of the hedgerow, he could see the roofline of her house and knew they were getting closer to it.

At the end of the path was a greenhouse, impossibly tall and bigger than his house. The glass required to make it would have cost more money than he would see in his lifetime. But he supposed magic glass didn’t cost a thing. 

The witch lead him into the greenhouse and he found it even warmer than the garden, lit by candelabras hanging from the ceiling. Exotic flowers of every shade lined two aisles running the length of the house. Next to the door was a bench with shears, a trowel and some small pots. It was incongruously normal, a little potting bench in a magic greenhouse. Next to the bench was a table with more esoteric tools and glassware.

“Roses aren’t for lungs,” the witch said. “Especially one this red.” In the light he could see the rose he picked was, in fact, a deep blood red. The witch took it from him and set it on the table. Then, she went down the far aisle. “Roses are for the heart. If his blood was running thin or his heart pounding. If he was love sick or heart broken. Then you’d steal a rose. But for lungs - well, that’s something else entirely.”

He walked hesitantly past the magic table and the potting bench to watch her pace the aisle, carefully choosing flowers. “Lungs need iris and violet. A sprig of jasmine might ward off the next illness.”

There was a cluster of purple, pink and white flowers next to him that he’d never seen before. “What are these?” he found himself asking.

She barely looked over. “Orchids. Only if you’re having trouble conceiving.” Instinctively, he took a step back.

After making a loop of the house she returned to the table and set down her armload of flowers. Bucky hovered at one end of the table, uncertain as to what was going to happen. Then she lifted her hands and pulled down her hood.

She was beautiful. Warm brown hair pulled back in a bun and a long graceful neck. Her cheek was a perfect curve, nose a straight, aristocratic sweep. Her lips were full, though turned down at the corner. Despite what her voice had told him she didn’t look any older than him. He must have made some noise because she looked over at him. And then he saw the other side of her face.

It was scarred, horribly. He had seen men mauled by wolves or bears marked by similar wounds. They crisscrossed her cheek, bisected her eye and fused her lips. No wonder she spoke like an old woman, with only half of her mouth working. Her right eye was white, clearly sightless. The scars continued down her throat, disappearing under the cloak.

Her mouth twitched and she turned back to her work, ignoring his reaction. She tugged her gloves off and he saw that while her right hand was smooth and perfect her left was as scarred as her face. 

He didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to say. And so he stayed quiet and watched her pluck petals and crush them in a mortar.

“You haven’t asked my price,” she said after the silence had stretched.

It didn’t matter. Whatever it was he would pay it, if it meant Steve would live to see the morning. But it was probably best to know, so he could start dealing with it. “What is it?”

Her hands stilled a moment as if she was reconsidering. Then she straightened her shoulders and said, “You.”

He choked a little. “Me?”

“Yes. I need someone around the house. Someone to fetch and carry things, keep the fires going. Chase away any thieves who make their way into the garden.” That last with a sidelong glance at him.

It was a real effort not to glance at his missing arm. “Surely there was men who would be more . . . capable.”

“Indeed. I’m sure if I tacked a job notice to the board in the town square I would have to beat back the applicants with a broom.”

That was a fair point. “What about my family? Without me there won’t be enough money or food.” Handicapped he might be, but his fishing nets and lures sold regularly and he could still shoot one handed. His kills fed them, often with enough left over to sell.

“It’s a job, not slavery,” she said, sounding irritated. “You’ll be compensated. I can send it directly to your family.” She paused her work again and looked at him. “That is my price. If you don’t want to pay it-“

“No,” he said sharply. There was no other option. Steve was dying. “I’ll do it.”

Something that might have been a smile crossed the non-ruined half of her mouth. She turned back to her work, filling little glass bottles with her concoctions. Then she turned to him and lined the bottles up.

“Smear this one on his chest tonight when you get home. Then boil a pot of water, put five drops of this into it and set it out in his room so he can breathe the fumes. When he wakes in the morning use two spoonfuls of this to make him tea. Have him drink the tea twice a day for three days. Keep him warm and dry. Understand?”

“Chest, fumes, tea,” he said, pointing to each bottle in turn. “And he’ll be cured?”

“Yes.” She looked him in the eyes and he tried not to be distracted by the blind one. “This will cure him of _this_ illness. I cannot promise he won’t get sick again in a month or a year or five. I’ll not have you saying I welched on our deal when I can’t control the future.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “This is enough.”

Turning, she gathered the bottles up and put them in a box. She picked up the rose, as well. “You have one week to make what arrangements you need. Be at my gate by sunset the seventh day. What’s your name?” she asked, holding the box out to him.

“James Barnes. Everyone calls me Bucky.” He reached out to take the box and she handed it to him, then stabbed the tip of his third finger with one of the thorns from the rose. He jerked his hand back in surprise.

She held the rose up and he saw a drop of blood clinging to the thorn. “Seven days, James Barnes. Come back to me or I’ll come and find you.” She smiled a hard, dangerous smile and flicked her fingers.

Cold bit into his skin and he sucked in a lungful of snowy winter air, making him cough. Glancing around, he realized he was at the door of his house, the box of medicines clutched to his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later Steve was pink cheeked and sitting up in bed, eating porridge with cream and drinking the witch’s tea. It was pink and smelled of thyme and the white flowers she’d called jasmine. Steve claimed it tasted good and drank it willingly, even before they told him it was healing him.

Bucky had woken his mother and Rebecca when he was fumbling around trying to boil water according to the witch’s directions. The whole story had come spilling out of him. His mother had teared up a bit when he’d gotten to the part about having to go back. But she had helped him spread the poultice on Steve’s chest and Rebecca set up the steaming water. When Steve woke in the morning Bucky held the first cup of tea to his lips, feeding it to him one sip at a time until it was gone. They’d agreed not to tell him of the deal Bucky had made, not until they were sure he was well.

Now he seemed well on the road to recovery and Bucky only had five days left, so he had to tell him. Steve listened thoughtfully, eating his lunch and not looking at him. when Bucky was finished he said, “You can’t go.”

“I have to, Stevie. I promised. It was the price for curing you. And you seemed cured.”

Steve shook his head. “There has to be another way. You can’t just. . . go be a witch’s servant for the rest of your life.”

“She seemed nice enough.” That wasn’t entirely true. She’d been brusque and short tempered and kind of terrifying. But he wasn’t going to admit that last one to Steve. And she seemed to have held up her end of the deal and made his friend well so he was feeling somewhat generous towards her. “And she said you guys would be compensated. I finally found steady work, even with my arm.” He attempted a smile and was relieved when Steve returned it.

“Maybe by the end of the week I’ll be well enough to come with you. “

Bucky arched his brows. “You think the witch needs two servants?”

“I think together maybe we can defeat her.” Steve’s bony jaw was stuck out stubbornly. 

“Steve,” he said quietly. That wasn’t like his friend. Steve had been in more scrapes than Bucky could count. But he was generally trying to finish a fight, not start it. Planning to go slaughter a woman, even a witch, wasn’t in his nature.

“I just. . . I know this is because of me. It’s the last in a long line of you trying to save me from myself. And I just-“ He gave a watery smile. “What am I going to do without you?”

“Maybe she’ll let me come back.” It was doubtful, but there was nothing else to say. He sighed. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you guys. But she told me there was a price and I agreed to pay it. She could have killed me for trying to steal from her. Or turned me into a toad or a statue for her garden. Instead she made you medicine. Medicine that worked better than anything you’ve ever had before.” Bucky had been quietly, maybe irrationally worried that the medicine would turn out to be poison, killing Steve as revenge for the attempted thievery. In the stories witches did that sort of thing.

“She held up her end of the bargain,” he said. “I need to do the same. If it was anyone else you'd be saying the same thing.”

Steve sighed and Bucky took a moment to appreciate the sound had no rattle or wheeze. “I know. You’re right.” He finished his tea and leaned back on his pillows. “What can I do to help you get ready?”

“Just get better. I don’t want to go with you still in bed.”

He spent the next few days making as many nets and traps as he could, so that his mother would have stock to sell for a little while. His mother cried on and off, but seemed determined to send him off properly. She and Rebecca knit socks and mended shirts for him to pack. He tried to tell them that the garden had been caught in a permanent summer and likely he wouldn’t need wool sweaters and the like. But it was their way of caring for him, so what could he do?

On the afternoon of the seventh day Steve was up and about, helping him with the last of his packing. They were quiet, there being nothing left to say. When it was time to leave Steve insisted on walking with him, though Bucky did his best to talk him out of it. 

He hugged his mother and sister tightly, promising to write if at all possible. At the last moment he realized he should bring back the box she had given him to carry the medicine in. It sat on the hearth where he had put it down a week ago. But when he tried to lift it, it wouldn’t budge. It was if it was attached to the stone, as impossible to move as the slab itself. Even the lid wouldn’t open.

“I guess she wants it to stay here,” Steve said and Bucky left it where it was.

“I appreciate you not trying to talk me out of this,” Bucky said as they hiked through the woods.

Steve shrugged. “You’re right. You made a deal and you should keep your word. I hate it, and I’m going to miss you. But it is the right thing to do.” He looked over at Bucky. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Bucky smiled. “Didn’t think you would.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “It’s worth it, to see you up and walking.”

The wall stretched before them. The witch had said to come to the gate, so he and Steve followed it, looking for anything resembling one. 

“If we can’t find it does that mean you don’t have to go?” Steve joked when they paused to determine if they had made a complete circuit or not.

Before Bucky could reply, there was a faint rumbling sound. Next to them, the stones of the wall began to separate, unravelling like a ripped seam. They pulled apart and reformed into a sweeping archway the revealed a hedge lined path leading to a house that looked like a castle from a story book. Complete with turrets and grand front doors.  
 For a moment they just stared at it. Then Steve shook his head sharply and turned to him. “Yeah. Keeping your word is probably a good idea.”

Bucky nodded, then reached out and yanked Steve to him in a fierce hug. “Take care of Ma and Rebecca for me.”

“Of course,” Steve said, voice muffled but Bucky’s shirt. “Write me if you can.”

“I promise.” He took a deep breath and stepped back, holding Steve at arm’s length. “Stay out of trouble. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Steve made a face that indicated he might be trying not to cry. “How can I? You’re taking the stupid with you.”

“Jerk.” He socked Steve’s shoulder, then bent to grab his bag. Steve lifted a hand in a wave and Bucky started walking down the long path. As soon as he passed the stone the air warmed and dry gravel crunched under his feet instead of snow. He glanced back and was oddly relieved to see the stones still open and Steve standing there watching him. He’d been a little afraid the wall would swallow him up immediately, cutting him off from his friend and the world.

Straightening his shoulders, he gave Steve a little nod and started walking again. The castle loomed at the end of the path, spires and turrets stabbing up into the sky. As he got close the huge wooden doors opened for him, revealing nothing but darkness. At the stairs he looked back again and lifted his hand to wave at Steve. He returned the gesture, looking like he might want to run after him, either to rescue him or join him in whatever lay ahead. It was impossible, though, and the more nervous Bucky looked the worse it would be for him. So he managed a smile and stepped into the castle.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did he found himself in a grand entryway. A huge, sweeping staircase lay in front of him, flanked on either side by a wall of doors, all closed. He counted a dozen of them, six on either side of the staircase.

The third one on the left opened and the witch stepped into the entryway. Her steps faltered slightly and she looked surprised to see him, but recovered quickly. “How is your friend?” she asked, drawing her hood up to hide the scarred half of her face.

“He’s well, thank you,” he said. Tilting his head, he guessed, “You didn’t think I’d come.”

“I lost track of the days,” she replied, waving her hand vaguely. “It happens. I would have noted your absence eventually.”

Great, he got himself indebted to an _absentminded_ witch.

Straightening a bit she strode towards the stairs. “I’ll show you to your room.” He followed her, a few stairs behind. “Your duties will be simple. The house takes care of most things, but I occasionally need things fetched or moved. I spend most days in my workshop in the northern spire. When I don’t need you you’re free to pursue your own interests.”

“If I’m off doing what I want how will I know you need me?”

She glanced back at him. “I’ll call for you. You’ll hear me.”

Chalking that up to a witch thing, he just nodded. The stairs ended in a wide hallway that could have held his house with room to walk on either side. It sprawled out to the left and right, curving back towards the front of the house. There were more doors, all closed, all identical. The witch turned to the right and he followed, counting doors until she opened the seventh one and held it open for him to proceed her.

The room was massive, like everything else about this house. He supposed he needed to get used to. It was clearly decorated for a man, in red, grey, and black. The bed could have fit five of him, built from dark, heavy wood and hung with rich burgundy curtains that matched the thick, plush rugs on the polished wood floor. There was a fireplace on one wall big enough to spit roast a turkey in. It was the sort of room you gave an honored guest, not a one-armed servant.

“This is all for me?” he asked, turning in a circle.

“Don’t like it?” She glanced around at the fine furnishings. “I think there’s a dungeon around here somewhere. . .”

“No, no. It’s lovely. I was just surprised.” He looked over at her. “Thank you.”

Clearly uncomfortable at the gratitude she lingered in the doorway as he went deeper into the room to explore it. “If you need anything ask the house, she’ll do her best to accommodate. I suggest asking nicely, though, she detests poor manners.” He supposed he should also get used to her saying very strange things. “The house and grounds are open to you.”

He grinned a little crookedly. “Really? No forbidden passages? No room of secrets?” In the stories there was always some mysterious locked door the hero needed to find a key to.

But the witch just shrugged. “If there’s a room you’re not to go in then the door won’t open for you. My secrets keep themselves.” She studied him a moment. “Supper is in an hour.” With that, she left, door swinging shut silently behind her.

Without someone else there the room was empty and utterly silent. Bucky could hear his breathing clearly. The true circumstances of his predicament sank in then. Alone in this castle with no one but the witch for company. For who knew how long. Maybe the rest of his life. Maybe forever. She was a witch and she looked his age at most, the good half of her, anyway. How did he know the house didn’t have some sort of spell on the house that kept her immortal. What if he was stuck here forever?

All right, seriously, he couldn’t panic five minutes into this arrangement. He was here, he’d made the deal and there were no other options. So he set his bag on the ground at the foot of the bed and unfastened his coat, shrugging it off his left arm. It was damp from the snow and while it was nice and comfortable in the room he didn’t think it was warm enough to dry it.

There was a metal sling by the fireplace stacked with perfectly quartered firewood. A quick perusal, however, revealed no way to set said firewood alight.

_If you need anything ask the house._

Well, what the hell? He glanced up at the ceiling, which boasted a candle chandelier that reminded him of a ship’s wheel. “Um, House? Could you give me some kindling and flint?”

There was a soft thumping noise and he looked down to see a fire blazing merrily in the hearth. He blinked at it a few moments, then shook himself. “Oh. Thank you. I was going to try to dry my coat.”

This time it was a rattle and next to him was a spindly wooden rack thing that seemed made for draping a jacket on. He grinned. “Thanks!” He could get used to a magic house that took care of him.

He got the coat drying and decided to explore the room a bit more. The bed was soft as a cloud, with a truly ridiculous number of pillows. Night stands flanked it, each housing a lamp and pitcher full of water. A desk dominated the wall next to a window, with a stack of paper and pen and ink. Tugging the curtains aside, he found he had a view of the garden, including the green house. Past that was the wall and beyond that a glimpse of snow-tipped trees.

There was a door on the wall beside the fireplace that definitely wasn’t the one he’d come in through. He opened it to reveal the largest water closet he’d ever seen. There was a tub big enough for a whole family, with a pump that seemed to pour directly into it. Pretty bottles lined a shelf above it. When he smelled one he found it far less feminine than he’d feared. There was a smaller basin and pump for washing his hands and the privy tucked away behind a curtain. If the magic house took care of emptying that for him than this whole mess just might be worth it.

When he went back out into the main room he discovered his bag missing. A quick search found it at the bottom of the wardrobe, the contents neatly hung and tucked away in the same place. It was on the tip of his tongue to scold the house for doing it. He was perfectly capable of putting his clothes away. But he reminded himself the house was probably just trying to be welcoming and sighed, closing the door of the wardrobe. “Thank you, House.”

There was no response. He didn’t know if the house talking to him would be better or worse than the silence.

This was probably the extent of exploring he could do in this room. She had said the house was his to come and go as he chose. And if he was expected to make an appearance at supper he should probably make an attempt at finding the kitchen.

The door opened easily under his hand and he stepped out into the long hallway. He opened the door next to his and found another bed chamber, this one done in green and white. Closing the door he continued on, away from the stairs, on the assumption it would lap around. He opened doors at random, some three in a row, other times waiting several in between.

Most were bedrooms, each a different color scheme or theme. He didn’t find one he thought was the witch’s and presumed her rooms were elsewhere in the castle. One door lead to a twisting staircase that must have lead up to one of the turrets. Another revealed what must be a storage room, with shelves and shelves of linens packed on shelves from floor to ceiling.

Another seemed to be a lady’s dressing room, packed with gowns of every shade of the rainbow. He was no expert in women’s things, but when he reached out and dared touch one of them it certainly felt like silk. At the far end of the narrow room was a table stacked with boxes. Curious, and under the assumption if he wasn’t allowed to look he wouldn’t have been allowed to open the door, he walked over and opened one of the boxes. It contained a necklace, styled like a collar and studded with rubies, some as big as his thumbnail. It could have fed his family for the rest of his life.

Somewhere in the house a clock started to chime the hour. Bucky closed the jewelry box and left the dressing room. The door swung closed without him having to touch it. Counting the chimes told him it was six o’clock and probably time to find out where was eating supper. He jogged the rest of the way down the hall until he found the staircase, then hurried down it. Of course, now he was faced with the entryway fill of doors. One next to the staircase creaked open and, for lack of any better ideas, he slipped through.

It was a dining room, with a long table. He counted fourteen chairs on one side. Plus the ends meant you could fit thirty people at it. A fire burned merrily in the heart along one wall and candelabras on the walls and table lit the room. There were paintings on the walls and above the mantle. Landscapes mostly, of all different places.

The witch sat at the far end of the table, at what he supposed must be the end of it. There was a cluster of serving dishes before her and the only other seat with a place set was at her right side. She was either reading something or staring at her plate in contemplation. Either way, she didn’t look up when he entered, or when he started the trek down to take what was apparently his seat. She only seemed to notice him when he sat down. Then she blinked owlishly at him, as if she’d forgotten he was here at all.

She was no longer wearing her cloak, but a gown, much like the ones he’d seen upstairs. It looked blue in the firelight, dark blue like a midnight sky. It was sleeveless, but covered her throat to her chin. Her scarred hand and arm was covered by a long glove the same color as the dress, but he could see a few inches of the puckered skin between it and the dress. The side facing him was nothing but smooth, pale skin.

He wasn’t entirely sure how or if to greet her, especially when she seemed constantly surprised he was there, so he turned to his food. There was a covered dish before him and he felt his heart sink. Eating one handed was hard enough. He really didn’t think he could manage eating a fancy meal. Still, he had to eat, so he lifted the shiny metal lid off the plate, revealing thinly sliced beef in a rich sauce., roasted potatoes and creamed spinach. Everything about the meal was designed to be eaten with one hand. Even the meat was already cut into bite sized pieces.

“Does the house make the food?” he asked, setting his cover aside and picking up his fork.

The witch paused with a bite of potato halfway to her mouth. “In a manner of speaking,” she said. “She cannot create the food, but she prepares it.”

“Where does the food come from, then?”

“The usual places. Butchers, bakers. We grow a great deal of fruit and vegetables in the gardens.”

He watched her eat the potato before digging into his own meal. Somehow, he couldn’t picture her at a market, bartering for a hank of beef or sack of flour. But he supposed even witches had to eat and food made from air wouldn’t be very filling.

She held herself very carefully, so that he only saw her in profile. From this angle there was no hint of the scarred side. He was simply having a meal with a mysterious, beautiful woman.

“How does one even become a witch?” he found himself asking.

She sipped wine from a stemmed glass, turning slightly to look at him. He could see the arch of her cheek and some of her scarred nose. “Are you thinking of changing occupations?”

He smiled, deciding to take that as a joke. “I was just curious. Is it something you train for or are you just born turning people into toads and poisoning apples?”

To his complete and utter shock, she smiled. “Poison apples never go the way you plan. Apples have a mind of their own. You could try to kill someone and end up giving them a bad case of hiccups.” She speared a piece of meat with her fork. “Natural ability certainly helps, some people are more in tune with magic than others. But everyone can tap into it if they know how. There is a great deal of training and study and usually an apprenticeship, like any other specialized job.”

Utterly shocked that she’d actually answered him, he asked, “You apprenticed somewhere?”

She nodded, swallowing. “For three years with a witch on the far side of the southern mountains. Her specialty was stone and metal work. If you needed an enchanted sword or magic amulet she’s the one to speak with.”

“I take it your specialization is plants?”

Another nod. “That is generally not something you choose. We all have our innate affinities and fighting against them can lead to disaster.”

He found he liked hearing her talk and decided to keep asking questions for as long as she’d humor him. “What other affinities are there?”

“Oh, all sorts. Water, fire, weather. Weather witches are awful neighbors. You never know if you’re getting a sunny day or a hurricane.”

They spent the rest of the meal talking about magic and spells. Well, she talked and he asked every question he could think of to keep her talking. When they had finished their main meals she told him to cover the plate with the cover again. After a brief pause they lifted them again to reveal little jars filled with chocolate and cream.

“So the house is. . . sentient?” he asked skeptically, dipping his spoon into the dessert.

She hesitated before answering, glancing up at the ceiling. “Not quite. It’s more an awareness of those she is responsible for.”

“Did you enchant it?”

“No,” she said quietly. “Not intentionally, anyway. I suppose you could argue it was my doing.”

He put his spoon down. “What happened?”

Shaking her head, she covered her food and rose. He cursed himself silently. “Wait-“

“Thank you for a pleasant dinner,” she said stiffly, stepping away from the table. “I’ll call for you when I need you.” Before he could formulate an apology or think of something that might make her stay, she left in a soft swish of skirts.

He ate a few more bites of dessert but it was like chalk in his mouth. With a slightly apologetic look, he covered the plate again and stood, walking back to his room. The house helpfully opened doors for him on the way, so he didn’t get lost.

His coat was dry when he returned to the house, so he tucked it away in the wardrobe. As he did, he noticed there was some new clothes in there, that he hadn’t brought with him, including a fine lawn night shirt.

Briefly, he considered gently informing the house he did not need fancy night clothes. However, the shirt was possibly the nicest thing he’d ever felt. So he tugged it off the hanger and brought it into the bath chamber to get ready for bed.

Later, tucked into the massive, cloud-soft bed, he was sure sleep would elude him. His head was full of magic houses and plants and mysterious witches who seemed as sad as she was frightening. But he had barely blown out the lamp and closed his eyes before drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky didn’t see the witch the next day. Or the day after. There was a place set for her at dinner each night, with the chair pulled out hopefully, but she didn’t show. He made an effort to keep himself entertained. Exploring the rest of the upstairs took the better part of a day. He even climbed up one of the narrow steps to the tower, but found nothing but an empty room at the top. Hell of a view, though. If he leaned, he could see all the way to the ocean.

The second day found him in the garden. It was a maze, though he didn’t think one with any planning. It would take him far longer than one day to wander it all and most of it wouldn’t mean much to him. He didn’t know much about plants, especially ones you couldn’t eat. Rebecca had been the gardener, not him. Still, he was not a man used to idleness and at least trying to get a lay of the land would make him feel productive.

On his second day in the garden, just when he was becoming concerned she had forgotten his presence entirely, he heard her call him.

“Barnes!”

It echoed through the gardens, coming from everywhere all at once. Bucky jumped a little despite himself and headed back towards the house at a jog. The doors opened for him before he hit the steps, then the first one on the left swung open urgently. He trusted the house not to get him lost for the fun of it, so he went through it, then up the flight of stairs behind it.

There was a landing at the top with three doors. The one on the far right opened, revealing a narrow spiral staircase. With a sigh he climbed that, at a slower pace. He’d always felt cramped in his old house, and there was no privacy, but at least there hadn’t been any goddamned stairs.

The spiral stairs spilled out into another tower room. This one wasn’t empty. In fact, Bucky would have described it as rather cluttered. Tables lined half of the round room, shelves the rest. Every flat surface was covered. Books, papers, vases, pots, vials, jewels and stones were littered everywhere. The witch stood in front of one of the tables, hunched over a mortar and pestle, grinding something. 

Her back stiffened a little when she became aware of him. “Can you read?” she asked almost conversationally.

Thinking this was probably something she should have checked before making him her servant, he replied, “Yes.”

“Good.” She plucked a piece of paper off the table next to her and held it out. “Go to the library and get me these books.”

He took the paper without glancing at the titles. “Where’s the library?”

She paused, tilting her head slightly. “Third door to the right of the stairs off the main foyer.”

Stifling a groan, he tucked the paper into his pocket and headed back downstairs.

He found the library easily enough, but found himself staring from the doorway for far too long. It was enormous, which he’d come to expect from this place. But a huge library meant lots of books. Thousands of them, probably. The shelves went from the floor to the ceiling that had to be at least three stories high. Ladders and stairs lead to railed walk ways that ringed the room at various heights. How on earth was he supposed to find the ones she wanted in this?

With a sigh, he dug out the paper. Maybe this was one of those impossible tasks heroes got sent on. She thought it would stump him but with perseverance, luck, and the help of kindly bookworms or something he’d get it done in no time. Not that he really wanted to meet any sentient book worms. Kindly or otherwise.

Instead, he found her list of books had detailed location notes jotted next to each title. _Theories on Cooking Herbs_ was on “the balcony with the gold bannister to the left of the window” and _Complete Guide to Flora of the Elysian Fields_ was “eye level exactly across from the door, red leather cover.” Clearly, as absent minded as she was, she had this place memorized.

Retrieving the books, it occurred to him that this fact rather backed up his theory on her being immortal. Had she read _all_ these books? That would take years. Centuries probably. Hell, even collecting them must have take years. Or did magic books just happen to witches? Maybe her mentor have given her a bunch when she finished her training.

With a sigh, he stacked the books up on a table and tucked them in his arm, heading back for her workshop. He set them down on the table next to her with a louder thump than was strictly necessary and she looked up. She studied first him, then the pile of books and nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, surprised at the words. “Is there anything else?”

“Not right now.”

He headed back to the stairs, then stopped and looked back at her. “If I promise not to ask any personal questions will you join me for dinner again?”

This surprised her enough to actually turn and look at him. “You want me to eat dinner with you?”

The utter incredulousness of her tone made him a little sad. “Yes. I enjoyed talking to you. And to be honest it’s really hard not to interact with anyone all day. I’m used to a village and houseful of people.”

She blinked at him a few times, then looked down at her work as if she’d never seen it before. “I’ll be happy to join you for dinner,” she said finally. “If I don’t arrive promptly call for me. The house will be sure I hear it.”

He was surprised at how relieved he felt at that. “Thank you.”

With a sharp nod, she turned back to her work.

She arrived at dinner promptly, looking vaguely like a chastised child. He was glad to see her, if only because it meant she’d listened, but wasn’t sure what to talk about, as he’d promised not to pry. After a few moments of awkward silence, she started telling him about some of the more exotic plants in the gardens. He couldn’t care less about them, really, but it was conversation and clearly something that interested her, so he did his best to stay engaged.

Dessert was some sort of sweet fruit pudding which they both savored. When it was time to leave he stopped her with one last question.

“What should I call you?”

She stared at him as if he’d just asked her something horribly inappropriate. He’d tried to phrase it as open ended as possible, since he’d heard stories about witch’s names giving power over them in some way. But that wasn’t what her expression said. Her expression said it had been a very, _very_ long time since anyone had called her anything, let along her name.

“Witch will do,” she said finally, sounding almost thoughtful.

He made a face. “You must have had a real name.”

A look of grief crossed her face. “I suppose so. But it hardly matters now. Witch with do,” she repeated. “If you have to call me something.”

He saw her more regularly after that. Mostly it was carrying books to and fro. Once it was helping her get something off a high shelf. It broke up the monotony of his days at least, as did their dinners together. Breakfast and lunch seemed to appear wherever he was at the proper time, but dinner was always served in the formal dining room. 

Nice clothing continued to appear in his wardrobe. He thought the house was trying to hint that he should dress up for dinner, but he was still ignoring it. Magic clothes just seemed wrong. What if they disappeared at an inopportune moment?

He spent a lot of days in the garden. It seemed far bigger than anything that could have been hidden behind the wall in the woods he used to be about to circle in less than a quarter hour, especially given how much space the house took up. He asked Witch about it once and she mumbled something about ships in bottles before sending him off to bring her some particular pot from the kitchen.

There was a massive orchard on the south side of the yard, on the other side of the house from the green house and the rose courtyard. It had rows and rows of apples and pears and plums and all manner of things he’d never seen before. They were always sweet and perfectly ripe and he often snacked on them for lunch or brought in a few to have around his room. He tried the foreign ones cautiously, occasionally bringing them to Witch for help. There was one in particular, with rosy pink skin, hard and almost papery. He could not, for the life of him, figure out how to peel or bite it. So he’d brought it to her in her high tower.

“Pomegranate,” she said, sounding almost delighted when he finally got her attention. She took it from him and rolled it on the table under the flat of her hand. The fruit made odd crunching noises. Then she took a knife from a drawer and cut it, revealing a beehive of pale flesh dotted with glistening blood red seeds. She pried one out and popped it in her mouth. “If you’re going to poison a fruit, this would be the best candidate. Pomegranates are quite convinced they’re already wicked.” She held the fruit out to him and he took one of the seeds. It popped in his mouth, the juice sweet and a little tart.

There were more and more moments like that. When he saw the girl behind the scars and power and ancient knowledge. He wondered sometimes if, before she’d become a witch, she’d been a gardner or a farmer. No one could fake the love of plants and land he saw in her.

He’d been there a well over a month, as best he could tell, when he found the doe in the strawberry plants. 

Prior to this discovery he hadn’t come across any animals bigger than a bee. To be precise, bees were the only living creature he _had_ seen. Apparently, even magic plants needed someone to pollinate them. He’d given them a wide berth and they’d mostly ignored him, as all good bees did.

The deer was a surprise. A young female, still a bit gangly in the leg, with her fawn spots still fading. Her left foreleg was injured, the fur spotted with blood and the limb bent to keep it off the ground. She was nibbling strawberries and looked up at him in a panic but clearly couldn’t run away.

Backing away slowly, he waited until he was out of sight before turning to run back to the house. Witch was in her tower, as always and looked up when he thumped up the stairs.

“There’s a deer in the garden,” he said without preamble.

She blinked. “A deer?”

“Yes. I’ve never seen an animal in the garden before so I thought-“

Her good eye looked up at the ceiling as she sighed, “Injured or sick?”

It was his turn to blink in surprise. “Uh, injured. Her left foreleg.”

With another sigh, she glanced around and gathered up a few things before nodding to him and following him down the stairs. He lead her out to the strawberry patch, then followed the rather obvious path the doe had left as she’d left. They found her in the orchard, stretching to reach low hanging plums. She startled again when she saw them and started to hobble away.

Witch lifted a hand and a soft breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. The doe stopped and sniffed the air, shifting on her three good legs nervously. Slowly, Witch crept closer, humming something softly. When she was almost there, the deer turned and watched her, eyes wide. But she didn’t move, not even when the witch reached her and put a gentle hand on the side of her neck.

For a few minutes woman and deer looked directly in each other’s eyes and seemed to have some sort of silent conversation. Then the animal shuddered and lowered her head, resting it on the witch’s shoulder.

“That’s a good girl,” Witch murmured, stroking a hand down the animal’s neck and side. “It’s all right.” With her other hand, she reached out and touched the trunk of the tree next to her. Immediately a half dozen apples dropped from its branches.

The deer carefully eased down to the ground and munched happily on the apples and the witch waved him over. “It’s all right,” she repeated, to him this time.

Carefully, he walked over and crouched next to her. “Do you magic animals, too?” he asked softly.

“Animal magic is vanishingly rare.” She had pulled a pouch off her waist and was taking out bottles and swaths of cotton. “Animals have minds of their own - more so than plants - so any kind of magic you do with them requires their agreement and input. Usually ends with the witch living out in the woods, sky clad and wild haired.” Shaking some pungent liquid onto a cotton pad she carefully started cleaning off the wounds on the deer’s leg. “But animals and plants have an understanding and usually mine will speak on my behalf.”

The deer had finished eating the apples she could reach and Bucky reached out to snag one a few feet away and fed it to her as he might have a horse. Her mouth was smaller and more delicate, so she took more bites than a horse might have. “How did she even get in here?”

“The house lets them in when they’re hurt or sick, if they come close enough to the walls.” She finished her swabbing and dug some dried herbs out of her pouch and packed the wounds with them before wrapping them in cotton. “Looks like she got caught in some briars or something. Cuts aren’t deep enough for a trap or snare. And it doesn’t feel like the bone is broken.” 

When the wounds were neatly bound she tidied up her things and leaned back. “There we are. She can wander around the garden and get fat for a few days while I keep the wounds clean and dry. We should be able to send her back out before mating season is begun.”

They stood and helped the deer to her feet. It carefully tried putting a little weight on the leg and shuffled her legs a bit but kept it down. She nudged the witch, then him, before turning and strolling off deeper into the orchard.

“What will the price be?” he asked her as they headed back towards the house. “For the healing?”

She looked up at him. “Only magic has to have a price. That was good old fashioned herbal knowledge. No price required.”

That was probably important knowledge. There might come a time when it was important to know the line between magic and mundane knowledge. He was distracted from this train of thought by her next question.

“How did you lose your arm?”

He turned to stare at her, more because she had shown interest than because it was technically a rude question. “I was hunting and a boar got loose from my snare. Came right at me. Tore the arm up, broke both bones in the lower arm. It went bad. The arm. So they cut it off before it could spread. I almost died from the blood loss and then a fever. This was. . . five years ago?”

She was studying him and for a moment he saw something calculating flit behind her eyes. It was gone almost immediately and he wondered if he had somehow told her too much.

“What happened to the pig?” she asked.

He grinned. “It was delicious.” She blinked, then tipped her head back and laughed. He had never, in all the time he’d been there, heard her laugh that way. He swore the sun shone a little brighter and the plants around them bloomed. Though, given her connection to the garden, maybe that part wasn’t his imagination. 

When she calmed, despite the fact he knew it would probably sour her mood, he asked quietly, “How did you get your scars?”

The amused glint faded from her good eye and she looked away from him. He didn’t think she was going to answer, but after a moment she sighed. “They were punishment. For a great sin.”

“What sin?”

She peered up at the house. “Hubris.” She stepped away from him and walked up the back steps.

The deer was their guest for ten days. It was rather nice, he saw the witch far more than he normally did. Sometimes it took them a while to find the doe and they walked side by side through the gardens. It made him oddly homesick. He hadn’t had one steady girl, but hadn’t lacked for female company. A nice stroll through the woods in the spring had often been a prelude to much more. Not that he expected anything to happen with the witch. But the sensation was similar.

When the doe’s leg was healed they went together to set her free. The walls opened to reveal the woods no longer thickly covered in snow but showing the early greens of spring. The deer bounded off into the trees without a glance back and he felt a pang of loneliness. He turned away as the wall began to close up again and caught a sad smile on Witch’s face.

Slowly, they walked down the path towards the house. He hadn’t really thought about how long he’d been there, but clearly the world was moving on without him. The seasons were changing, spring was coming and he was behind these walls.

“You’re sad,” Witch said quietly.

He sighed. He had made an effort not to complain, not to let his situation get the better of him. But there was only so long willpower could hold emotions at bay. “I miss my family,” he said honestly. “The castle is lovely and I’m not mistreated and you’re even good company on occasion.” She gave him a sharp look. “But I miss them.”

She was silent a moment and when they reached the back steps of the house she caught his arm. “Come with me.”

Curious, he followed her through one of the doors off the entry that had never been open for him before. It lead to a room that looked like nothing so much as a warehouse. or possibly a library only with odd bric-a-brac and artifacts instead of books. The shelves that lined all four walls went to the ceiling and wheeled ladders were attached at regular intervals to allow for retrieval off the top ones.

“What is this place?” he asked, looking around, momentarily distracted from his homesickness.

“Storage room,” she told him, sounding rather distracted herself. “Touch nothing.”

He had been inches away from poking a taxidermy owl and immediately snatched his hand back. “Where did you get all this stuff?”

She lifted a shoulder, scanning the shelves as they walked. “Witches trade things often. Magic has a price and offering up some artifact or another is the simplest way of paying it off. Honestly, they’re like poker chips. Most of us never use half of them. Ah.” She caught the closest ladder and dragged it over. “Wait here. Continue touching nothing.”

Before he could answer she swung up on the ladder and started climbing. He lurched forward to grab the ladder and steady it. She climbed up about ten feet in the air, rummaged through the mess on the shelf at that height and then climbed down, landing lightly on her feet beside him. She had something wrapped in cloth tucked under her arm. Without a word she headed out of the room again and he hustled after her.

This time, she lead him to a little parlor decorated in blues and greens, like the ocean. She set the bundle on a polished wood table and carefully unwrapped the cloth to reveal a mirror with a simple carved wooden frame.

“This mirror will show you anything you wish,” she told him, running her scarred fingers over the carving. “Anywhere in the world. Like peeking through a window.”

Bucky took a hesitant step closer. “Anything?”

She glanced over at him. “Yes. The top of the highest mountain in the world. The sunset, wherever it is at this moment. Even the Queen’s bedchamber, though I wouldn’t recommend it.”

He laughed a little at that. “So I can see my family?”

“Yes. If you think it will help you.”

Still hesitant, he reached out and touched the mirror frame, stepping closer so he could see his reflection. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say it out loud or ask nicely like he did with the house. But before he could form the words the surface of the mirror rippled like a pond and he could see the main room of his house. 

His mother was cooking something over the fire while his sister sat nearby, sewing something. Both wore what looked like new dresses, and as he watched, his mother moved enough for him to see there was a bird roasting on the fire. He thought of Steve and the image shifted, showing him walking on the path, leading a healthy looking goat behind him. His slacks looked new, with no patches on the knees. He looked healthy and well fed, a far cry from the last time Bucky had seen him.

“They look. . . well. Really well.” He looked up at Witch in confusion.

“I did say they would be compensated for your work,” she said.

His brows arched. “Did you send them a pile of gold?”

She smiled. “Do you remember the box I sent you home with?” 

He nodded. “I tried to bring it back, but-“

“It couldn’t be moved,” she confirmed. “And it only opens once a month, on the new moon. When it opens, it holds a small sack of coins and some odds and ends to help supplement it. Flour, or other grain. Some apples and plums. Herbs bundles. With spring coming I might toss in a bolt of silk. The spiders have been busy,” she added with crooked smile.

It had never occurred to him she was. . . taking care of his family. The money would have been sufficient, probably more than he ever pulled in. But the food would give them things to trade, netting them better prices. No wonder they had new clothes and a bird on the fire. Apples at this time of year would have fetched a huge price to the right person. Steve was clever enough to spin some tale about how they had got them and Bucky knew for a fact the lace merchant loved apple pies.

Without thinking through the implications, he lurched forward and hugged her. “ _Thank_ you.”

She froze and it occurred to him what the hell he was doing. Leaping away like she was on fire seemed rude but he was suddenly concerned he was about to be turned into a mouse.

Then her arms slowly lifted and wrapped around him, hands flat on his back. “You’re welcome.”

She was warm and slight against him and he wondered briefly how long it had been since someone had touched her kindly. His suspicions were confirmed when she actually leaned on him a little bit. He tightened his arm around her, holding her up.

After another moment of that she took a deep breath and stepped back. “Perhaps next time you can help me decide what to send them.”

He grinned crookedly. “That sounds like fun.”


	4. Chapter 4

More injured animals appeared throughout the spring. A crow with a broken wing, a rabbit with a sore tooth. Once it was a wolf who had seen the worse end of a fight. Bucky hadn’t been so sure about that one, but after Witch had seen to his injuries he had slept by the parlor fire like a pet dog, harmless as any mutt or hound Bucky had ever known. He’d been a little afraid she would try to keep it as a pet, but once the last of the scabs had scarred over he’d been shown the way out of the wall the same as the rest.

Only once did she fail to heal the animal that had come to her. He found the vixen in the rose courtyard, bloody and panting. Clearly something larger and meaner had gotten ahold of her and she had barely escaped. Even his untrained eye could tell there wasn’t much to be done, but he had scooped her up and brought her back to the house, calling for the witch.

She had cleaned and wrapped the animal’s wounds and carefully fed her medicine and broth, murmuring to it too quietly for him to hear. Witch had made the vixen a little bed by the parlor fire and kept a vigil throughout the night. In the morning he was unsurprised to find her sleeping on a couch in the room. Nor was he surprised to find the fox had died in the night.

They buried her by the southern wall where the nightshade and foxglove grew. Bucky didn’t spend much time over in the “plants that can kill you” corner, but some of the flowers were pretty and it didn’t seem a bad place for a graveyard. There were a handful of other mounds that were clearly previous losses. None of them were large enough to be a person, which he found vaguely reassuring.

Witch crouched down and smoothed fresh dirt over the vixen’s grave. With a little murmur, she sunk two fingers into the earth. When she pulled them out a green sprig of new growth pushed its way out of the holes.

He watched the green seedling spread and grow a moment before saying, “Is this what you study? Up in your tower? Life and death.”

She didn’t respond immediately, brushing her hands together and straightening. “Death and I have never agreed with each other.” Glancing over at him she asked, “How did you know?”

“This garden. It never dies. Death is a part of a plant’s life, happens every fall. But you refuse to let the autumn come.”

His words made her glance around said garden, an odd, twisted frown on her mouth. “Death is. . . fickle. Evil old men live for a century in their high towers and young children waste away.” She looked at him then, eyes hard. “You came here trying to save your friend from death. I’d say we have the same failing.”

There was a certain logic to that, of course. But there was one difference. “I didn’t want Steve to die. I’m starting to think you don’t want anything to die.”

He couldn’t explain the look of utter grief that crossed her face at that. “I started with just one,” she said softly. He was so surprised a that particular confession - and the idea that there had once been someone in her life she cared for the deeply - that he didn’t stop her when she walked away, leaving him among the sweet smelling, poisonous flowers.

As spring bled into summer Bucky checked on his family regularly. As they neared the summer festival he gave Witch advice on what to put in their box for payment. From silk to fruits to flowers his mother could dry for wreaths or press for perfumes. It was kind of fun, like sending them presents all year. He was able to sneak in Steve’s favorite fruit and Rebecca’s favorite flowers and he hoped they noticed and knew he was taking part in the choosing.

 There were a few times when he went looking for the witch that he couldn’t find her, despite scouring every inch of the castle he knew of. When he asked her about it she brushed him off with her usual distracted manner so he didn’t think much of it. He wasn’t afraid of her anymore, and even liked her a bit, but she was still a witch and by definition rather odd.

She started giving him tedious, fiddly jobs to do outside of her turret. Sometimes he fetched plants or equipment from the greenhouse. Other times he sorted spell components, always with her assurance that the work was vitally important. He had the distinct impression she was doing it to avoid him, but it didn’t seem worth arguing over. It gave him time alone. And who knew, maybe they were vitally important.

He was sorting different colored stones in the parlor and watching the town decorate for the summer festival when she appeared in the doorway. There was an odd air to her, a sense of anticipation and excitement that seemed incongruous. It was enough to break his concentration and the images on the mirror faded, the glass reflecting only the room again.

“Leave that,” she said, waving her scarred hand at the stones. “I have something for you.”

Letting the pebbles he held fall back into their box, he stood, still processing her words. “Have something?”

“Yes.” She waited until he’d almost reached her before turning and striding down the hall. “It’s the summer festival, isn’t it? Exchanging gifts is still tradition is it not?”

“I- yes. You got me a gift?” Perhaps he’d fallen asleep at his task and this was some sort of very strange dream. 

“Made it, to be precise.” He had to hustle a little as they reached the stairs to her turret. Her little workshop was a cluttered as always, only now one of the work tables was mostly cleared off to make way for an arm made of shiny silver metal.

Bucky stopped abruptly at the top of the steps when he saw it.

The witch stopped as well, glancing back uncertainly. “I told you my mentor specialized in metal work,” she said after a moment of heavy silence. “I used her notes and some of my own knowledge. I apologize if it occasionally smells of rosemary or lilies, but it was necessary to get the metal flexible enough.”

Sucking in a breath, he said hoarsely, “How does it work?”

Cautiously, she reached out and picked up the limb. “Without getting into the technicalities of the spell, once you place it against what’s left of your arm it will function exactly the same as your other one. There may be some . . . odd sensation when you first put it on, but that should pass quickly. This has been done a few times before,” she added. “With mostly positive results.”

He’d been about to reach out and touch the thing, but her words stopped him. “Mostly?”

She shrugged. “One wizard tricked an enemy of his into using one that turned evil and tried to kill him. But that was a very isolated incident.”

One of these days he’d figure out whether or not she was joking when she said things like that. He stepped closer and touched the arm, finding the metal warmer than expected. She let him take it from her and he was pleased at how light it was.

He should probably be more concerned about strapping something magic with a mind of its own onto his body. But frankly, he’d deal with a homicidal limb if it meant having two arms again. He had learned a couple things working for her, though.

“What’s the price?”

She smiled, as if she was proud of him for remembering that part. “Well, it will do my evil bidding at every full moon.”

“You used that joke already.”

The smile widened. “What do you have in your pockets?”

He set the arm down and rummaged in his pocket before pulling out a couple dry leaves, a handkerchief, a bit of string and a button that had fallen off his shirt. She leaned forward to peer at the little collection before stirring it with a finger and plucking out the button. “That will do.”

His brows went up. “That’s it?”

“A witch chooses her price.” The button got tucked away in her cloak somewhere. “I’m sure you’ll want privacy to put it on. You should take it down to your room.”

Picking the arm up again, he studied it a moment, before looking back at her. “Thank you,” he said, voice full of emotion.

She blinked rapidly for a moment, then nodded. “You’re welcome.”

The arm required some adjustment. It tingled on the stump of his arm where it connected. There were no straps or hooks keeping it on and Bucky kept expecting it to come flying off in the middle of a chore or task. But it stayed on. It was a simple thing, he supposed, given the scope and power of magic he’d seen since moving here. Still, it was unsettling and foreign. For a few days he forgot he had it and still tried doing tasks one handed. When he did remember sometimes the fingers fumbled or gripped too hard or too loosely, which was equally frustrating.

“Did you grow used to the loss in a handful of days?” the witch asked as he angrily swept up a glass he’d shattered. They’d been having a perfectly nice dinner when he’d attempted to take a sip of wine and utterly destroyed the fine crystal goblet. Her words caused him to pause in the work and glance at her. She continued, “Then don’t expect to adapt to any quicker.”

“I had two arms for most of my life,” he grumbled, getting the glass into a tidy pile. The house probably would have cleaned it up for him, but he’d felt the need to deal with his own mess, as least in part. “You would think I’d fall right back into old habits.”

“This isn’t your arm,” she pointed out, flicking her fingers to make the glass disappear to wherever it was their trash went. “It’s as close as I could make it, but it’s not the one you were born with.” She stood, tucking her napkin next to her plate. “A walk in the gardens usually calms me.”

It was a roundabout offer, but he nodded and fell in step with her. The summer festival had marked the end of the season and now autumn was threading her way through the forest beyond the wall. The witch’s garden was, as always, completely untouched by chill winds or frost.

The walk did soothe him. He’d grown to love the castle and its lands almost as much as she did. He still missed Steve and the rest of his family, but watching them in the mirror took the sting out of it, as did the monthly care packages. The witch was good company, when she wasn’t distracted by her work. And even if she’d been a cruel and wicked mistress it would have been worth it to have his new arm. Fumbles and frustrations aside, the metal limb gave him freedom he’d thought was long lost to him. She was right, he was get used to it eventually and someday it would be as if he’d never been one-armed at all.

They had strolled to the rose court and the witch paused to inhale the scent. To his surprise, it made her frown and squint at the western wall, brow furrowed. Bucky tilted his head to sniff the air as well. Under the rich, heady scent of roses was the thicker, acrid smell of burning wood.

Turning as one, they took the western path and reached the wall just as it rearranged itself to show them the woods. The trees were wreathed with a heavy layer of smoke. As they watched, a flock of birds took wing in the distance, back lit by an eerie yellow-orange glow. Fire.

“Can you do something?” Bucky asked hoarsely.

She was shaking her head, but looked grieved. “It’s too far away.”

“Is it near the town?” Her mouth thinned and she didn’t respond, which was answer enough. “You have to do something.”

“I _can’t_. I can’t leave the garden.”

He stared at her a moment, then looked back to the plumes of smoke billowing out of the woods. “Who the hell made that rule?”

“Magic has a price,” she said softly, with far more meaning than he had the ability to understand right then.

“A blaze like that will destroy the town, the crops. It will kill people and then make the survivors starve.” He looked down at her. “ _Please_. Whatever the price is I’ll pay it.”

She shuddered and shook her head. “No,” she said quietly. “You won’t.” She stared out at the woods and sighed softly. Then she tugged her cloak hood up and put a hand on the edge of the wall. It shuddered violently but parted further, till there was a section that was barely knee high. With a glance back at Bucky she gathered up her skirts and lifted a leg, stepping over the wall.

He followed her, stopping on the other side of the wall at her side. She paused and glanced down at the ground, as if she expected it to open under her feet. When it didn’t, she strode forward into the trees. 

It occurred to him, as he followed her through the dimly lit forest, that he should have gotten some sense of why, exactly, she couldn’t leave the garden. Or what the scale of the price to be paid for this. Well, no sense closing the door after the horses have fled. He would deal with the reckoning when it came.

They reached the edge of the blaze, which was, indeed, well on its way to the crop fields at the edge of town. Witch stood and took in the situation a moment, eyes narrowed and darting. “Stay here,” she ordered, striding forward towards the blaze.

Obeying the order didn’t even cross his mind. He followed her a few steps behind, squinting as the heat of the fire licked his face and made his eyes sting and water. She seemed more or less impervious, going close enough that surely her skin had to be burning.

She placed a hand on the bark of one of the last trees standing before the flames. With a deafening crack it fell, as if to block the fire’s path. Several more trees did the same, clearing a swath of land between the edge of the blaze and the healthy trees that marked the end of the wood.

With the fire break in place, the witch paced down the length of the first felled tree. Bucky found himself rooted to the spot, either from magic or shock. He could do nothing but watch as she placed both hands on the trunk of the tree and dug the tips of her fingers into the wood.

It began to sprout long, tangled, vine-like branches that stretched rapidly up to the sky. More vines began to grow, out of felled trees and burnt ones. Out of the ground at his feet, making him stumble away, finally able to move. The vines twisted and tangled around each other, some thick and rough as oak, others almost delicate and dotted with flowers. They formed together into a wall that closed in the still burning section, then reached higher, until they had fully closed in the danger.

There was utter silence and it was only then he realized how loud the fire and the growing vines had been. Like thunder or the roar of the sea.

The witch stood in front of the dome of vines and looked rather satisfied at the thing she had created. For that moment she was beautiful, cloaked in shadows and lit by moonlight and the faint glow from the trapped fire. She was the witch of story and legend. Powerful and dangerous and eternal.

Then she gave a cry and crumpled to the ground, clutching at her scarred arm. Bucky was moving almost before he’d really processed what he saw, skidding to his knees at her side. She was breathing in short, harsh pants, like a wounded animal. For once his arm worked exactly as he wanted it to and he reached out to scoop her up. She was felt light and frail in his arms, despite the heavy cloak. He turned back for the castle, carrying her through the half burnt woods, retracing their path as best he remembered it. 

Twice she spasmed in pain and he went down on one knee, holding her to him so he wouldn’t drop her. After the second he started running, afraid she wouldn’t make it if he didn’t hurry. Finally, the wall was in sight. It flung itself open for him and seemed to all but reach out for them.

He brought her to the parlor that the animals had convalesced in and laid her down on the plush velvet sofa that faced the now roaring fire. The witch didn’t respond to his voice, so he began to untie her cloak, pulling it away from her face and body. Her scars had grown worse. Over the months he had grown used to them, barely noticing them. They were a part of her, that was simply what she looked like. From the right angle and in the right light they seemed to all but fade away.

Now her left hand was warped and twisted into a claw. The scars that had fused half her mouth now twisted it up into an unnatural half-smile. He brushed her hair back and found it now streaked with white.

Uncertain as to how to help her, he touched her hand, tried to rub the cramp out of it.

“Leave it,” she wheezed and for a moment he was brought back to a hundred bad nights with Steve, desperately trying to find a way to help him.

“What happened?” he asked, hands hovering helplessly as she shoved herself into a sitting position.

“Magic has a price,” she said, staring down at her twisted hand.

“I thought the witch could choose her price.”

She sighed heavily. “This was the price for leaving the gardens. The price for the fire still looms.”

Since she no longer seemed in immediate danger, he pushed himself up to his feet and paced away. “I don’t understand any of this. Why are you trapped here? How long have you been here? Why are you scarred and why does leaving make it worse?” He turned back to her and found her looking at the fire, eyes distant. “I think I deserve to know.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the tick of the mantle clock. Bucky set his jaw stubbornly, crossed his arms and waited.

When she spoke, it was not what he expected her to say.

“I was very young when my mother died.” Her voice was cracked and dry as fall leaves and she sounded ancient. “My father did his best, but her loss destroyed him, so in many ways I raised my little sister myself. My proficiency in magic was obvious when I was still a child, but we had no money for proper training. I didn’t want to leave her, anyway. So I figured most of it out myself. If I’d had a different specialty it never would have worked. But a girl with a healthy garden was a boon to any town, magic or otherwise. And so I learned and I thrived.”

She looked away from the fire and cleared her throat. A small table appeared, with a serving tray of tea and finger sandwiches. The witch smiled, or tried to, before reaching out with her left hand and taking her cup.

“As I grew older, I started to focus on healing. It started out as a natural offshoot of plant magic. Many of them have medicinal properties. Then my sister grew ill, with the same thing that had killed our mother.”

Bucky sank onto the sofa beside her, afraid if he said a word she would stop talking.

“It became an obsession,” the witch said. “I refused to lose her. My mentor said it was a futile. Other witches told me it was dangerous. There are some things we cannot change, cannot meddle in. There are powers greater than ours and it doesn’t do to fight them. But I didn’t listen. My sister was dying and I would have done anything to stop it.” She looked at him then and he felt a moment of kinship with her. Reaching out, he curled his metal fingers gently around her ruined hand.

“She was near death. Too near, as it turned out. I tried my spell, poured my potion down her throat. And the world turned to flame.” She sucked in a little breath. “When I woke the pain was gone and I was . . . here, in this castle, scarred. I can’t explain how but I knew this was my punishment, for thinking myself greater than life and death. A foolish woman in a guided cage. All the knowledge and power I could want at my fingertips but trapped in these walls where I can’t share it.”

“Is there anyway to free you? To break the curse?” In the stories there was always something. A certain rhyme or sword or cup to drink from.

But she was shaking her head. “No. Not that I know of. I have been here a very long time.”

He swallowed. “How long?” he asked, thinking of the stories he’d grown up with about the witch in the woods.”

“A long time,” she repeated. “Decades. There was a king on the throne when I was growing up.”

A very long time indeed. There had a been nothing but a queen for Bucky’s lifetime and she had inherited from her mother. A hundred years alone in a house with nothing but her magic and her regret. It was likely she would be here long after he was gone. And there was nothing he could do to help. Something like grief settled around his shoulders, though it was silly to grieve someone who couldn’t die. 

She stirred after a moment and stood, hugging her twisted arm to her chest. “Good night.”

 “Wait,” he said, jumping to his feet. “The price for stopping the fire. I said I’d pay it,”

He braced himself for something awful. Doing it had cost her an arm and a great deal of pain. Surely she would pass some of that on to him. Instead she studied him a moment, with her good eye. Then she stepped closer and touched his face with her left hand. Going up on tiptoe a little she kissed his cheek, lips soft and dry again his skin. He stayed stock still through the whole thing, too shocked to react.

When she stepped away from him again he thought he saw tears in her eye. But she turned and walked away before he could be sure.


	5. Chapter 5

Winter arrived in the world beyond the wall with sudden, swift cruelty they could see even from their pocket of spring. The wind howled through the bare trees and the walls opened to let in cold and hungry animals at a surprising rate. The witch had no energy to heal them, but for the most part all they needed was the warmth and bounty of the garden. Bucky grew used to stumbling over confused foxes and deer and watching squirrels bound from tree to tree.

“It’s rather nice to have them here,” the witch commented one afternoon when she joined him outside. She had spent more and more time inside, though he had the distinct impression she wasn’t working. She had lost weight since the fire, growing thin and pale, with dark circles under her eyes. It had been a bit of a relief to see her out and cutting blossoms when he’d come out for his walk.

“There’s a whole colony of them in the fruit orchard,” he replied, wincing as a squirrel missed his landing and skittered dangerously on a high branch. The animal’s rear end then lifted and plunked onto the branch as if scooped up by an invisible hand. He glanced over at Witch who gave him an innocent look, dropping a sprig of browned baby’s breath onto the ground.

“You shouldn’t exert yourself,” he scolded, as he had Steve a dozen times every winter.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, much like Steve had a dozen times every winter. She set the flowers she’d been collecting in the basket she had hooked over her twisted arm.

He watched her walk back to the house, her gait slow and limping, and knew she was lying. She hadn’t been the same since the fire, though her power seemed strong as ever. Maybe he we just projecting. It was winter and he expected to have to take care of someone.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t checked in on his family lately. The mirror sat where it always had in the parlor, but he’d been distracted worrying about Witch and hadn’t thought to worry for them as well. 

Leaving the squirrels cavorting in the trees, he headed inside. Stopping at the kitchen for a snack, which conveniently appeared on the counter as he passed, he made his way to the parlor and leaned over the mirror, munching his blueberry muffin.

What he saw made the moist cake turn dry and ashy in his mouth. Steve was in bed, paler and thinner than he’d ever seen him before. Bucky’s mother stood to the side, hands twisted in her apron, clearly near tears. That was bad. His mother was not a crier, not on the worst of days. If she was doing it in the same room as Steve. . .

He was running before he realized it. “Witch!” He took the stairs to her turret two at a time. “Witch!”

She met him at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed ad concerned. “What-“

“Steve’s sick. Badly sick.” He braced his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

“I told you he might,” she said kindly. “I warned you I could only cure the illness he had last year.”

“I know,” he said. “I know and I’m not asking for you to fix him. I understand. But I just. . . If this is it, then I want to say goodbye.” He looked her in the eyes, trying to read her expression. “If you had it to do all over again. With your sister. Wouldn’t you at least want to say goodbye.”

Her good eye sparkled with tears and she swallowed hard. Hesitantly, she lifted her hand and stroked his hair out of his eyes. “Yes,” she said softly. “That is the least I would want to do.” She straightened, drawing composure around her as if it were her cloak. “But that’s _not_ the least _you_ can do.”

Bucky shook his head in confusion and watched her turn away and go to a set of shelves that reached up to the ceiling. She reached up to a shelf above her head and drew down a cork stoppered bottle made of dark glass. Holding it as it was precious and rare, she carried it over to him. Instinctively, he knew what it was. “Witch, I can’t - I thought this was what cursed you in the first place.”

“I was cursed for my hubris,” she explained, looking down at the bottle she cradled. “I was selfish. I didn’t want my sister to live for her. I wanted her to live so that I didn’t have to lose someone else that I loved. You came here a year ago to save your friend, with no thought to yourself. You agreed to come here, to never see him again, content in the knowledge you had bought him a little more time. You are not selfish, James.” She set the bottle in his hands and he cradled it to his chest as she had. “Everything will be fine. You just need to get there while his heart still beats, so there’s no time to waste.”

“The price.” He forced himself to say it, though he dreaded her response. “What’s the price?”

She smiled sadly. “It doesn’t matter. You won’t be paying it.” She gave a gesture and a blood red rose appeared in her hand. “This is the rose you tried to steal, the one I pricked your fingers with. It represents our bargain.” She tucked it in the inner pocket of his jacket. “I release you from our deal, James Barnes. You’re free to go and live your life.”

This was all happening so quickly and not in the way he had expected or even wanted. “Witch, I don’t-“

“It’s already decided.” Her voice had grown sad and tight. “Thank you, for this year. It was the best I’ve had in a very long time.” She touched his cheek again and managed a smile. “Goodbye, James.” She leaned in like she might kiss him and instinctively he closed his eyes, leaning to meet her.

Instead of her lips he felt the bitter kiss of wind and snow.

He opened his eyes to find himself standing in front of his house, lamp light glowing in the windows. Taking a breath of winter air to try to clear his head, he reached out and pushed open the door.

His mother and sister were utterly beside themselves when they saw him, talking over each other. He ignored their questions and attempted warnings about Steve and pushed past them, shrugging his coat off and tossing it on the back of a chair on his way to the bed room. Steve lay where on the bed pale and still as death. For a heart-stopping moment Bucky thought he was too late. Then the other man took a deep, rattling breath and Bucky could move again, closing the distance between him and the cot.

The stopper in the bottle stuck and he had to work it out, terrified he’d break the bottle in the process. He still wasn’t entirely sure what it would do. Make Steve immortal? Heal his lungs? But he trusted the witch, with his own life as well as Steve’s. So once the cork loosed with a pop he tipped his friend’s head up and poured the bottle’s contents into his mouth.

Steve sputtered and coughed, but the liquid went down. Setting the now-empty bottle on the floor, Bucky eased Steve back against the pillows and waited. He didn’t know if he should be more worried about it not working, or that it would work so well he’d be punished as she had. Then Steve sucked in a deep breath that was neither wheezy nor strained. Color came to his cheeks, healthy pink, not feverish red. 

After a few more natural, easy breaths, he opened his eyes and looked at Bucky. Blinking rapidly a few times, he smiled, “You came back.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said softly, cautious relief flooding him. “I’m back.”

Steve’s eyes drifted shut again and he slept easily. Bucky left him and went back to the main room to begin his very long explanation to his mother and sister.

Saying it all out loud, the long wandering tale of him and the witch and the things he’d learned and seen, it didn’t seem real. Maybe it had been some strange dream he’d had out in the woods. Except they had received the boxes of food and goods. They’d seen the scars the forest fire had left and the dome of heavy vines that stopped it. It had been real and now it was over and he didn’t know how to feel about that.

Explaining it to Steve in the morning was better. He’d had a night to sleep on it, to sort things out. And Steve. . . Steve had never looked better. He ate two breakfasts when he woke and seemed ready to jump out of bed and conquer the world. Hearing Bucky’s story at least distracted him from that.

Bucky didn’t tell any of them everything. Not the soft, quiet moments he’d shared with his witch. Not the kiss after the fire or the way she had said his name when she’d sent him away. Those were for him and him alone.

They all exclaimed over his arm and all the wonderful things she’d sent in her boxes. And they were all happy to have him home. So was he, for the most part. The house was warmer than he remembered, some of the extra income having gone to fixing the roof and weatherproofing. And everyone was happy with him back and Steve healthy.

And healthy he was. Steve was eating like a horse and putting on weight. And height. At first Bucky thought it was his imagination. But when his friend’s pants started showing inches of skin at the ankle it was clear that the witch’s potion had done far more than simply cure his cough. At the end of the week he was a bit taller than Bucky and all four of them were scrambling to cobble together clothes he could wear.

“Do you think the witch meant for you to never go back?” Steve asked while they were in the backyard chopping wood. “I’d sort of like to go and thank her.”

“I don’t know,” Bucky admitted, swinging the axe with particular vehemence. “The goodbye seemed rather final.”

“So you’ll never see her again?”

He had to put the axe down for fear of cutting his toes off. He hadn’t thought of it like that, in such stark terms. To never see her again. Never tease her till she smiled. Never remind her to eat because she’d gotten distracted in her work. Never stroll through her gardens watching the bees or the squirrels. The idea of a life without her caused a hole to open up in his heart.

Fingers suddenly clumsy, he fumbled in his inner pocket and pulled out the rose she had tucked there a week ago. It was wilted and dying, petals gone soft and drooping. As he pulled it out several fell off, falling on the snow like blood.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice sounded miles away. “Are you all right?”

“I think something’s wrong,” he said, suddenly entirely sure of it. “The witch, she’s sick or hurt.” She’d promised he wouldn’t pay the price, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been one. It just meant she had been the one to pay it.

His fingers tightened on the rose stem, thorns pricking at his palm. “I have to go.” Without another word - or giving Steve a chance to talk him out of it - he started running for the woods. 

The crunch of snow behind him told him that Steve had followed him and he was a little relieved. He didn’t know what he’d find at the end of this and maybe it would be best not to be alone. The woods passed in a blur. The cold air made his eyes sting and his chest ache. But he didn’t slow, didn’t let up the pace. The rose was still clutched in his hand, shedding petals as he ran.

The wall came into sight and his heart sank. It was old and crumbling, huge gaps opening the garden to the outside. He jumped over the loose rocks, climbing over what was left and found himself in the garden. It was no longer in eternal spring, but withering and bare branched, hit hard by the winter frost.

“No,” he whispered, breathing hard. “No, no, no.”

“Buck.” Steve’s voice was quiet, sympathetic. Bucky wasn’t ready for sympathy, so he ran on, over the broken stone paths to the castle, which now looked run-down and dilapidated.

“Witch!” he called as he reached the doors. The word echoed in the empty foyer. There was no response but he refused to let panic overwhelm him. He rubbed his hand against the dull wood of the stair case bannister. “House, if there’s any magic left in you, any at all, please help be find her.”

Nothing happened and his heart sank. Steve reached out to touch his sleeve lightly. It didn’t matter. They could split up a search. They would find her eventually.

With a loud bang all the doors in the entry way slammed shut save one. Bucky grinned and headed for it. “Thank you,” he breathed.

He’d never gone through this door when he was here. It lead to a staircase almost as grand as the one in the entry way. The carpet lining it had once been a rich, dark blue but was now faded and moth eaten. Bucky barely noticed, running up them two at a time, Steve on his heels. He followed the line of open doors until he found himself in what was clearly the witch’s bed chamber.

It was as cluttered as her workshop had always been and he suspected it would have been even if the house hadn’t been crumbling around their ears. The bed sat in the center, a huge four poster thing with blue drapes embroidered with stars. Steve hovered in the door way as Bucky crossed the faded grey carpet to tug aside one of those heavy drapes.

The witch lay on the bed, thin and fragile in a blue gown he had seen her wear to dinner several times. Her hair had more white in it than when he had left a week ago and when he touched her arm the skin was dry and brittle as paper.

She opened her good eye and a ghost of a smile crossed her face as she saw him. “James.” Her voice was as thin and brittle as the rest of her. “You came back.”

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he tried to smile for her. “Of course I came back.” He stroked her hair back away from her face. “You’re my witch,” he told her, leaning close to press his forehead to hers. “And I love you.”

Her eye widened and her skin seemed to glow with an inner light. She grew hot to the touch and he was forced to lean away, then jump off the bed entirely as the light engulfed her. Steve ventured far enough into the room to grab his arm and keep him from trying to reach for her.

After a few endless heartbeats the light faded and the witch lay there still. Bucky shook off Steve’s hand and put a knee on the mattress, then froze.

The scars were gone, as was the white in her hair. Her left hand lay on her belly, smooth and young and perfect as her other. The only thing that remained of her disfigurement was a small, flat white scar that bisected her eyebrow, a mere shadow of what she had once looked like.

Her eyes opened and they were both the same clear hazel brown. She blinked a few times, then lifted her hands, studying them, before shakily touching her face. When she felt the smooth, unblemished skin her eyes widened and she looked at him in wonder.

He had no answers for her, but he knew exactly what to do. Reaching out, he gathered her up in his arms and kissed her. She melted into him, sinking her hands into his hair to hold him to her. They kissed and kissed until Steve politely cleared his throat from the vicinity of the doorway and Bucky forced himself to lean away.

She was still unscarred and beaming broadly. She touched his cheek and the feel of her fingers was familiar. “I love you, too,” she said softly.

If he grinned any wider his face would split, but he resisted tugging her into another kiss so he could ask, “What happened?”

“I’m not entirely sure.” She examined her hands again. “I think. . . when I sent you away to help Steve I had no expectation. No reason for it other than because I loved you and wanted you to be happy.” Smiling, she cupped his face. “I was cursed for being selfish. You taught me how to be kind.”

Now he did kiss her again, briefly. “Does that mean you can leave?” he asked, resting his forehead on hers.

“Yes, I think so. The curse is broken.”  
 “Good, because this place has seen better days.”

Laughing, she looked around the room and noticed Steve. “Well,” she said. “I see it worked.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stepped forward and held a hand out. “It’s very nice to meet you, but I don’t think I caught your name.”

She slid her hand into his but when she spoke she had eyes only for Bucky. “Amanda,” she said quietly. “My name is Amanda.”

*

The crops had never seen such a spring.

Every crop in town, from the fields of wheat and barley to the kitchen garden in Ma's yard, was throwing out a record harvest. People exclaimed over luck or fair winds or early rains. Only a handful contributed it to the new witch that had moved into town. People were still getting used to the idea of a friendly witch and perhaps it was best not to push.

Bucky climbed the hill to the edge of the woods to find his wife standing and peering up into the branches of an apple tree in full bloom. It looked like something out of a painting by an artist that had never seen an apple tree. They really weren’t supposed to be that enthusiastic. 

“Are you showing off?” he asked her.

“It’s been a long time since I had to deal with non-enchanted plants.” She turned as he reached her. He slid his arms around her waist as she wound hers around his neck. “And it’s not just me. A great deal of power was released when the curse broke. Most of it went into the earth. I imagine there’ll be some impressive harvests for years to come.”

“Well. We’ll make sure you get the credit.” He kissed her, swaying with her under the branches. The tree shuddered and a dusting of apple blossoms rained down on them, making her giggle. He plucked a few of the flowers out of her hair, then took her hand as they walked back down the hill. “Steve wanted me to ask you if you can make love spells. The importer’s daughter is coming back from school at the capital and he wants to finally make a move on her.”

She squeezed his hand and leaned into him. “Love spells can be temperamental things. But I can whip up something for him. We’ll have to see what the garden is producing.”

They had moved into the empty old weaver’s cottage a month ago, after spending the late winter fixing it up. She had spent most of the last month in the garden, coaxing it into abundance. He imagined in a year or two he’d have to buy up the land behind it, and more besides as her ambition grew.

“What do you need?” he asked, picturing the tangle of green outside his window.

“Mmm. Carnations are good, for sweetness. Indigo for sincerity. Lilies or tulips for steadfastness.”

“Roses?” he offered, teasing a little.

She stopped and looked up at him, smiling. “Yes. Roses.” Lifting a hand, she cupped his jaw. “Roses are for the heart.”

Leaning into he touch, he tugged her tight to his chest. “They most certainly are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am utterly delighted by the response to this. Thank you all for reading!
> 
> Next up will be Cinderella starring Steve and Sharon, coming in March for Sharon Carter Appreciation Month.


End file.
